No Burden of Proof
by Darknightdestiny
Summary: [Vincent x Tifa] Family can be a lot of things. For my stepfather on his birthday.


**No Burden of Proof**

Rachel "D" Winslow

**(-A Very Special Presentation, in Honor of my Step-father's Birthday-)**

I remember the months before my father died. It was a lonely time for me, full of bitterness and doubt and so many things unsaid. I resented him, angry that he would disgrace our family bond, and despite his continued delight in me, his daughter, I pushed him away. His words of love and encouragement rang hollow in my ears, translating as nothing more than a pitiful attempt to have life both ways. I wanted him to choose, so I made myself deaf to him.

She was kind, and she was beautiful, and if ever I needed anything, she was there. She made him happy, held him close and erased his pain. Even when I was the cause of his suffering, she was patient with us both. It seemed to me like she was trying too hard; she was everything that we were missing.

And she wasn't my mother.

It wasn't fair, I thought. She was too loving with me, and I hated her for it. I wasn't her child to forgive, and what things I had to say to Papa about her were none of her business. She wasn't supposed to try to explain anything to me, and she wasn't supposed to try and be my friend. She was supposed to scare away, to go far away from me and my father. But she didn't go, and I soon realized that she had become Papa's confidant and his comfort. And his greatest burden was the rift our situation had made in our relationship.

I didn't realize at the time, how difficult I was making things for him. All I could think about was how Papa was moving on, and I was still grieving. I didn't want to forget my mom, and I didn't want a replacement to try and help me with that or any other problems I had. I hated Gloria for taking my father away from me, for blurring the memories of my mother. I hated her for causing this enmity between Papa and myself, and I hated him for sharing it with her, for trying to coax her into trying again and again. She wanted to be a part of our lives, and he was enough encouragement that I couldn't stop her, no matter how hard I tried.

Then, one day, I snapped.

"You'll never be my mother!" I can remember screaming. I knew the awful sound had come from my own mouth, but it hardly resembled my voice at all. My eyes were hard and empty - I can be sure, because I remember feeling just the same - and Gloria was nervous and visibly shaken. I remember the look in my father's eyes before I stormed out, unwilling to face him.

All she'd done was tell me how unhappy I looked and try to get me to stop and eat something before I headed out to Zangan's studio. But I had been stewing for so long, and I was looking for an excuse to get angry and let go of everything I had bottled up. I was indignant and furious, and Gloria had good reason to be afraid. I had become strong in my training, and though I would never raise my fists unprovoked - I was never that kind of child - I could break things, china and woodwork, and I had before.

The worst part of it all was being filled with the knowledge that when I hurt the woman Papa loved, I hurt him. I think I hated that most of all; he was quick to take offense when I was short with her, and it proved how much he really loved her. That was what I wanted to rid myself of, the guilt that hurting her caused me because of my father. If only he didn't love her so much, if only they were separated. That love, that righteous defense and devotion was supposed to be for my mother, and my mother alone, and I wasn't supposed to be at the other end of it.

Later that night, when I came home, Gloria made it a point to be out of the house. The dishes were cleaned and racked to dry, and left-overs were waiting for me on the stove. Papa was sitting by himself at the table, nothing in front of him but his folded hands, and I tried hard not to flinch under his gaze.

His brows were drawn together, and his lips were a pensive line as he placed one hand on the place next to - not across - from him. "Come here, kitten."

I obeyed, not meeting his eyes and feeling the sting. He hadn't called me that in years.

For a moment there was only stillness in the room, save for the pounding in my ears. Then Papa reached over and took my hand in his, holding it still on the table between us. "Tifa, I want you to know that no matter what happens, I will always love you."

Hot tears spread out from the corners of my eyes, and I choked on the throbbing tightness behind my tongue. He had to say that, didn't he? I was his daughter, and I always would be. But I wanted him to stop there. I just wanted to leave it at that, to go upstairs and cry myself to sleep and not have to apologize and have this conversation with him. I didn't want to hear how he knew I didn't mean to say that mean thing I said, because I did mean to say it, and I did mean it.

"I loved your mother too, you know. With every part of me, and all my heart."

"Then why?" I croaked out, "Why do you need someone else?"

Papa's face softened and his expression changed from concentrated concern to pure and unadulterated sympathy, and I couldn't take it. I threw one elbow up on the table and leaned my forehead against my palm so I didn't have to look at him.

"Oh, Tifa," I heard him sigh. Then I heard his chair scrape against the floor, and felt his presence at my side as he sat on the table. "Tifa, I didn't go looking for Gloria." He reached out and ran his hand through my hair, tucking it behind my ear, out of my reddened face. "Love usually happens when you're not searching for it. It's not forced, or-"

"You love her?"

I was looking at him now, searching his eyes for some contradiction to the answer I already knew. But all I saw was lucid honesty. "I do."

I swallowed hard. "As much as you did Mom?"

Papa bowed his head and smiled modestly. "I don't honestly know yet, Tifa. I was instantly taken with her, but it isn't fair to draw comparisons between a relationship that is only several months in the making, and one that lasted for over twenty years."

"So, if you'd known her as long as you did Mom..."

Papa sighed again, and put his arm around me, leaning me into his side. "'What if' doesn't matter. She's not your mom, and I don't want her to be. Things are different, because Gloria is a different person. Tifa, I need you to understand; when you tell her that she'll never be your mom, you make her feel like she's coming up short."

I frowned into his shirt. "I don't have to love her as much as I love Mom."

"No one says you have to, kitten," he said. "But if I want to, it's not wrong. How do you think she feels, when you compare her to your mom? Imagine how hard that must be for her. The last thing she wants to be is someone else's replacement. She is Gloria to me, and she can be just that to you. But we don't want to make her think that she should be something else. I don't want that, and I know you don't want that either.

"She's not here to fill a position, or play a role. She's here because I asked her to be, and I want her to stay. She doesn't want you to think she's your mom, and you can bet she doesn't want me to think so, either. She wants me to love her for her. And she also cares about you very much, Tifa."

I looked up at him, drying my eyes. "Promise me you won't forget her?"

Papa cupped my face with one hand and brushed the last of my tears away with his thumb. "Do you really think I could forget your mother?"

I shook my head and he grinned brightly, genuinely, when I sniffed.

"You look more like her every day." He held me to his chest and hugged me warmly. "Maybe one day you'll understand what I mean, but I hope you never have to. You've been through enough, I think."

"I love you, Papa."

"I love you, too, Tifa." He chuckled. "Now... let's get some food in that stomach of yours. It will make you feel better."

I backed out of his arms, and he went to the kitchen. I followed close behind. "Okay."

I never did forget the comfort in my father's tight embrace, or the awkward, quiet relief in Gloria the next day when I graciously accepted my breakfast and greeted her with a good morning. She was shocked, to say the least, but as time passed, we grew used to each other, and I even began to like her. I wish I had gotten to know her better, before she and my father died. I sometimes regret the horrors I put them through, but at least I know that we made peace with each other before it happened.

So, when Yuffie came busting down the door of my room at The Onsen, it was the only thing I could think to tell her. She was too enraged to be cold, I assumed, her thin capri pants soaked high to the thighs. She'd jumped straight into the koi pond in Godo's courtyard and waded right down the middle of it, in her haste to get away from him. Naturally.

I let her finish her speech first, because I knew she'd been preparing it the entire way over. Only after she'd begun to describe the details of Chekhov's impending death - only after she'd offered me to come along and help - did I tell her.

Sometimes family is all we have. They are the only ones who cannot divorce us, or put us away. Even when they refuse to speak, they are still a part of us. There is no denying what is in our blood. And I told her to be careful, to not push that away. Because once it's gone...

She didn't say much after that, but I told her it was all right. It was good, being able to share that with someone; it had served some purpose. And she, being the only one left with even one parent, wouldn't take it for granted.

But it's never really that easy, is it?

Yes; I can understand, when he yells at you. But doesn't make it any easier, and you don't have to tell me that it's okay, that it's normal for him to feel that way because I know. It's still not right, and he has to learn that now, like I learned then. Because you're doing me a favor by staying here, by accepting this. I know this, more than what we've already been through.

And we have gone through this time and again. Our shared insecurities, and our old doubts and baggage. We were in the same boat, you and I, when all this began and it was quiet, our secret, when we didn't involve anyone else. The last thing we wanted was to be each other's replacement lovers, and it was the last thing we wanted for each other, also; we've acknowledged this, we've worked through it. We know where we stand, and it's safe and secure, and reassuring. But you never asked for children, for this. For opposition and a fight nearly every day. And I think... if they had been hers, I'm sure I would never be able to bear that burden like you do, like you are. I'm so glad we tackled these things one at a time, so glad we didn't bring this out in the open until we'd worked through our own problems.

"Did it hurt?" he asks you, gesturing to your arm.

"Yes," you answer honestly, taking the question for an amiable attempt at conversation, but I know better. I see the opening, and it still crushes me every time. You're trying so hard, so willing to make up for what isn't there, so what he does next strikes me like a blow to the chest.

"Good," he says. And then he walks away. And gods, Vincent, I _see_ you flinch at his words because he's struck bone. I want to grab him by the arm and yell at him for hurting the one that I love, but I can't seem to make my mouth or my legs work. I want to scare the living hell out of him so he won't dare do it again. I know you could do it, but I remember how I would have reacted if my father had let Gloria touch me and I know it might have driven the wedge further between us. I can barely handle him myself, and I'm ashamed in front of you because of it, especially when I think how much harder it must have been for my father; Denzel's not even my flesh and blood.

I can feel the tears now. I'm crying and apologizing for him like so many times before. "I'm sorry, Vincent," I say. "He had no right. You've been nothing but kind to him." And you have. You're there when he needs you, despite the enmity and the abrasive remarks. Constantly forgiving, and you've never thrown any of it in his face or even acted like he owed it to you to make ammends. We... we don't deserve you. I don't deserve you.

You only tilt your head knowingly and send me a sad smile. "He doesn't see it that way, Tifa. To him, I'm the man who's breaking up his family. And I can live with that; there are worse things."

You don't have to tell me, Vincent. I know. I know like you wouldn't believe, and I think that it's time for me to tell him why, so that he'll know too. But I still feel the need to protest. "You're not, though," I say. "I ended things with Cloud before I even considered seeing you, and Denzel knows that."

Your eyebrow twitches and I'm blessed with that wonderful little half-smile that I love so much. It's the evidence of that mischievous boy in you, still there after all these years, I swear. Thirty years in total darkness couldn't kill him, and that really says something about you. Gods, you must have been something. You still are, only a quieter, hidden something, poking through the stitching every now and then when you're gracious enough to let me see it, but it somehow makes it special that way. I have to bite back the dry, sobbing laugh that threatens to spill messily through my open mouth at your unspoken question. You already know the answer.

"All right... so maybe I did consider it once or twice before then," I admit, unable to help the unabashed smile breaking through. You shut your eyes in admission, a laugh escapes your nose, and soon I'm drying my eyes with the backs of my hands. "But I would've broken up with him anyway. It was over, anyone could see that."

You lean forward and kiss my head, pulling me to you. I wrap my arms around you and we stand there in the quiet stillness, until your calm voice breaks the silence. "Give it time," you say. It's hardly more than a whisper, but you've said it so many times I recognize the sound instantly, muffled against my hair. So patient, so forgiving. I envy your endurance, I really do. It's a quality I've trained hard to maintain and something I've prided myself on, but if I were in your shoes...

Gods, I love you so much.

I can't help but feel like it's me, all over again. Spoiled and unappreciative, and why can't I stop this? Hell, my father prepared me for this! I feel so weak, sometimes. But you...

"I love you, Tifa."

It's amazing what being addressed by your name can do to you. It's personal and direct. There's no mistaking it; that declaration is for me, and only me. It's a habit we got into when we first got together; do you remember, Vincent? We never mentioned it, we just... did. I don't need to hear it anymore because I know you mean me, fully and completely - I'm not worried about that anymore - but it still fills me with a warmth I can't describe every time you say it.

I look into your eyes, startlingly red, tempered by the fires of experience I can't even begin to fathom and still glowing. You've got heart, Vincent, more than I'd ever dared to dream I could receive from another person. I have my answer. I'll tell him. I'll tell him tonight.

"I love you, too, Vincent."

_Warm_.

I'm going to say what I need to say, and if he wants to go and live with Cloud after that, I'll let him go. He can come home any time he wants, but this won't go on anymore. He doesn't have to love you, doesn't have to give you Cloud's place in his heart, but he's got to understand that _I love you_. And if he loves me as much as I love him, then he'll see what this is doing to us.

I hug you tightly. No, it's not right, Vincent. I need to show it more, need to speak up when he does this. How else is he going to see how much it hurts me? You say it's all right, but it's not. If he'd talked back to Cloud, he would have gotten an earful, but that was because we were a family unit, raising two kids together. And Vincent, _we _should be a family. If you're uncomfortable with that authority, I'm going to have to learn to be unafraid of dishing it out myself. Yes, I love you. It should be no different; if anything, I should defend it even more.

We shouldn't be spending our time in constant recovery, Vincent. We should be loving life, and spending it with the people we care about. I need my family, all of them. Because human life is too important to take for granted.

But I'm going to need you to back me up, Vincent. I know you'll do that for me, because you love me, too. And if you don't love him yet, then you've fooled me; you've got the patience of a man who does.

I'd recognize that anywhere.

**End**

_Final Fantasy VII and its characters © 1997 Square-Enix Co., Ltd._


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